


April Moon

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: 2nd Time Around (TMNT 2014) [7]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Halloween fun, Strange Romances, Turtle/Human relationships, phantom of the opera-inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halloween is in the air!!  Get ready for a night of costumed fun, dancing, and back-alley beatdowns.  What more could you want?</p>
            </blockquote>





	April Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm about a month late for a Halloween-inspired piece, but time got away from me. Nevertheless, I hope everyone enjoys this one. I'm also dedicating the Apritello in this segment to a dear friend, Michelle, for not only being a huge support but also giving the slightly-odd-but-still-fun-to-write inspiration. :)

“I can’t believe you guys talked me into taking that Art class.” A notably irate redhead declares, without much in the way of civilized greetings prior to the ranting barrage she looks fit to unleash on the individual responsible for her suffering. “The teacher is the long-lost love child of Edward Hyde and Long-John Silver.”

“Your noble sacrifice will be remembered with great admiration, as will your expanding familiarity with classic literature.” April answers, blue eyes alternating between a small stack of hand-written reports, her computer screen, and a calculator. “You need the class to graduate, Angel; there’s no reward for doing what you’re supposed to do. If you’re expecting a parade, forget it.”

Angel, she’s sure, had a witty little comeback in mind, but brown eyes divert to the work spread, albeit very neatly, across the desk, and she quickly changes topics. “What is _this_?” her hands drop flat to a pair of cocked hips, glowering at it all as though mortally offended. “No work tonight, O’Neil. You promised.”

“It’s the afternoon.”

“It’s _Halloween_.” The redhead declares, with great emphasis, the kind one might bestow upon a young child incapable of grasping just how important this day is. “The hours are ticking away, and you’re sitting here like a stick in the mud. We have a big evening planned. Now, come on: away. All of it, _away_.”

“I have another hour before the incredibly detailed plan for tonight officially begins.” April replies, tapping a few numbers into the calculator, pausing, and then rifling back through the reports, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. She can hear Angel huff, and then drop unceremoniously in the nearest chair.

“Do you even have a costume?”

“Sure she does.” Celine says, gliding through the door, skimming through a magazine as she joins the gathering group. There’s a distinctly amused tone to her voice that April doesn’t like. It’s the kind of voice used when someone is about to propose something they know the other person won’t like, won’t agree to, or is likely to lead to a horrified response. “She could be Naughty Little Red Riding Hood, or Adult Dorothy in Oz.” 

She flicks a couple pages over, skims the images, and then smirks, “Oooh…here we go. The sultry space alien, come to rescue her poor, deprived space explorer from the dreaded abyss of virginity.”

“For the _love_ of humanity, Celine!” April snaps; she can feel her cheeks flushing, and judging by her smirking companions, it’s a lovely shade of red. “ _Why_ do you even have a magazine like that?”

“On the mailing list.” Celine cocks an eyebrow down at her red-haired charge, who huffs and tosses her hands up in a gesture.

“I _thought_ I was signing you up for a quality clothing line, alright?”

“Oh, it is very quality.” The blonde’s smirk returns. “The endless possibilities of how to make a man’s blood pressure sky-rocket.” She flips a few more pages, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Maybe you should go for a naughty school teacher look, April. Put that age difference to good use.”

“ _Give me that_.” April growls, launching herself over the desk, grabbing the magazine—without much resistance from a still-smirking Celine—and tossing it into the garbage bin with great emphasis. The resounding _smack_ of its downward descent makes her feel better. “And you’re one to talk about age differences, thank you very much.”

“The both of you are cradle robbers.” Angel inserts, studying her nails while blowing a bubble with her gum. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Celine drops a line about going to confession first thing tomorrow morning, and ruffles the redhead’s hair until the ponytail is half undone and hanging in disarray around her face, even with Angel’s attempts to bat away the offending hand. From her back pocket, April feels a vibration, and then the muffled blare of trumpets and drums, beating out to accompanying lyrics, begins streaming through the office.

_I can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you, for all my life._   
_When you’re with me, baby, the skies will be blue, for all my—_

She doesn’t let it get past the second line of chorus, snapping one hand back to the pocket and retrieving her phone, ignoring Angel’s broad smirk and “Three guesses who that is” comment. She was not, admittedly aware of her ringtone being changed, but the song fits, so she’ll let Mikey off the hook for playing around with her phone without any advanced warning or asking permission. “Hey, Don.”

He sounds mildly flustered, and also a touch exasperated, for reasons she can’t quite pinpoint. “ _Did I call at a bad time?_ ”

“No such thing for you.” She says, half playfully and half with great sincerity; hopefully, the latter comes across in her tone. “What’s up?”

“ _After five hours, thirty-six minutes, and nine seconds of listening to begging, pleading, bargaining, imploring, and general inquiry, Leo finally asked me to just call and make sure, for Mikey’s peace of mind,_ ” and no doubt personal safety, she almost adds, with a tucked smirk, “ _that we were still on for tonight._ ”

“Couldn’t have missed it, even if I tried.” She replies, dragging a look across the desk to Angel, who is wearing a wide-eyed look of pure innocence quite well. “I have the second half sitting in my office.”

From the background, she hears an assortment of noises: Don speaking to someone who sounds like Leo, and then there’s a muffled crash, a yelp of pain, howling pleas for mercy, and a few choice words from someone that sounds very much like Raphael, and that leads into the sound of Leo yelling, barely audible over the rest of the racket, for his brother to put the other one down. After a couple minutes, Don returns to the phone, mumbles a hasty apology, and the call ends.

Celine cocks an eyebrow. “Everything alright?”

“Boys will be boys.” April sighs, shaking her head and reaching out to turn off the computer; she’s not getting any more work done tonight, anyway. “Let’s just hope they don’t get themselves grounded.”

“They’d better not.” Angel mutters, tossing herself over the chair with an elegant backflip. “His green butt will be mine if _anything_ ruins our plans.”

*** 

Halloween, as a general rule, is an annual time of disagreement, discourse, and in recent years, an evening that ends with all four of them in the Hashi, paying the price for one brother’s poor attitude. It goes without saying the guilty party is usually Raphael—otherwise labeled by Mikey as “The Halloween Scrooge”—and at this rate, this year very well could be a repeat of the past five.

Donatello hopes not. He has never been the religious type, but if a prayer to the Almighty gets his brother to calm down and forgive Mikey for the little mishap—although, to be fair, if Mikey had surprised _him_ when he was working on something of great import, he very well might have reacted in a similar fashion; he just hopes he might be a bit more civilized and do something like cleverly relocate his brother’s comic book collection, as opposed to try and beat him into the ground—and thus allows them to go out for the first time in years and pretend they’re somewhat normal, then he’s all for it. He’ll pray until his knees go raw on the concrete floor.

Outside his door, he can hear Sensei handing down judgment; their master speaks far too softly for him to make out exact words, so he won’t know the final verdict until Mikey either shouts for joy or dissolves into inconsolable weeping.

He really wishes Raphael would learn to curb that dreadful temper of his. Yes, each of them have personal hobbies that warrant extreme enthusiasm: for Leo, it’s learning new techniques (or, as of late, an anticipated evening with Celine); for Donatello, it’s the successful completion of a project or discovery of something new to experiment and play with; Mikey is positively ecstatic about the holidays, and Raphael’s pride and joy are his machines. Specifically, that monstrosity of a motorcycle he’s been working on for three years, collecting parts here and there, scouring magazines as he can find them for advice, instruction, and ideas, presently hidden away in one part of the tunnel maze that is their new home. He’s seen Raphael fall nearly into a trance when working on it, so much so he doesn’t notice when he has company—an unfortunate trait he and Donatello share—and consequently, when a certain younger brother bounces into his workshop and tries to tackle him in the spirit of holiday cheer…things are doomed to end poorly.

But tonight is not the night for rash outbursts. Tonight, they finally get to go out into the world, breathe the city air, move about as though anyone else…just be _normal_. As normal as they can possibly be. Excitement took a hold of him three nights ago, and hasn’t released him since. Excitement has been the driving force behind his dedicated construction of the perfect costume, every detail taken into consideration, and all with the image of finding April amongst the crowd, an overactive imagination creating all manner of different visions without knowing which one is the right one, and inspiring his heart to beat a frantic rhythm. 

It’s been a change. Well, not necessarily for everyone else; his brothers, actually, have been incredibly neutral about the matter—though he does wonder just what Mikey was doing with April’s phone the other day—and if his father knows anything, it has been accepted in gracious silence and without further discussion. Which, once again, leaves him wadding through the murky pool of uncertainty without direction and without any real steady ground upon which to stand. On one hand, April has been openly affectionate, with terms of endearment and unashamed embraces, all of which he assumes is to be expected of normal human relationships—if, in fact, he can properly consider whatever this is between them “a relationship” standing on a different level from the one she has with his brothers—but, again, he isn’t sure. Perhaps tonight, he might be able to watch the humans around them and quietly take notes. Study comparable specimens, then make the necessary comparisons, and reach a viable conclusion.

His door opens to reveal Leo, already dressed for the evening in full samurai grab, and a relieved expression on his face. “Is everything alright?” Donatello asks, hope bubbling up at his brother’s presence and relaxed demeanor. He mustn’t assume, but…

“Sensei told Mikey to atone for his crime by helping Raph fix whatever fell off the bike when he jumped him.” Leo is smirking, just a little, and Donatello shares the expression, envisioning everything that could possibly go awry with Mikey providing assistance to their brother in any capacity, let alone repairing something with which Raphael has a borderline unhealthy obsession with. “At any rate, we’re good to go.”

“Is Sensei coming?”

“No. He said his idea of Halloween night is a cup of tea and some old movies.” Leo shrugs, making a slight adjustment to his belt, and then takes note of the assembly lying across his brother’s bed with a smile and nod. “Nice.”

“Really?” Donatello knows when he has done a good job, and is dutifully proud of it, but earning his brother’s praise is still a novel concept, and results in a flustered state of delight every time. “I mean, it might be a bit childish, but I thought April would…you know, get it.”

“It suits you.” His brother reassures. “Let’s hurry up and get ready. Mikey’s ready to plow through the walls, if it would get us there faster.”

“That would likely result in a massive crater in April’s basement,” Donatello feels faint at the thought, at the reconstruction necessary and hours of labor, let alone the abject horror he’d be greeted with the second April saw the damage, “and a one-way ticket for us to the Hashi. Though…” he pauses, thoughtfully considering for a moment, and then, at his brother’s silent encouragement, continues, “perhaps an alternative access route wouldn’t be a terrible idea. In the event we can’t get in the usual way, for whatever reason.”

“Maybe you and April can brainstorm some ideas.” Leo nods, looking pleased with the thought. “In the meantime, I’m going to deal with Mr. Scrooge. See you at the door in ten minutes.”

He tucks a smile away, turning attention back to his bed and taking one last critical look. Leo’s approval certainly means a lot to him, more than he could ever express, given how long he had to work on this project. Style tips from watered-down magazines and catalogues, how-to videos from the Internet, more trial-and-error than he’d care to admit, and here was the finished product.

Celine had been a savior, of sorts, in assembling the necessary materials and providing better fashion advice than the salvaged magazines, pointing out the differences in fit and rise, and of course, size. Two nights earlier, he’d taken a trip to her place for a final fitting, and while he hasn’t the faintest idea just how they finally arranged the fabric to work around his shell, he does at least remember her triumphant shout and pleased expression when everything had fallen together. _Thank heavens_ , he thinks now, carefully negotiating his way into the various pieces, because if it were left up to him…well, he’d never admit to being bested by some fabric, but the end result would have spoken for itself.

This is not, despite all efforts to the contrary, a foil-proof plan. There is—taking into consideration the timing, the chance for April to be completely unimpressed, the more-than-probable likelihood that he’s been reading far too much into her recent behavior and mannerisms and consequently will absolutely embarrass himself tonight, in more ways than one, and the equally probable chances of some more desirable, attractive, male specimen catching her attention tonight—approximately a 90.59995% chance this is all going to blow up in his face.

But this is also Halloween, the nationally-celebrated holiday of being something other than yourself. A pretty girl can become a visually-unappealing sorceress, a socially-labeled “bad boy” could be Prince Charming, and a shy person could become someone bold. He’s making a gamble here, and he doesn’t like games of chance, but it’s too late to back out. Especially now that one brother has seen the costume, assembled and ready to go, and there are no projects especially in need of completion, he has no escape route. He’s all in, and there’s no going back.

He swallows, adjusts the jacket with quivering fingers, and takes a careful perusal down his front. He wishes he’d had the thought to develop some sort of contact lenses; his glasses take away from the entire point of his costume. The mask barely fits over them, and he spends an extra few minutes adjusting it and negotiating it into the proper placement. As long as he doesn’t make any abrupt movements tonight, it should work out. The hat, at least, settles perfectly atop his head; hopefully it hides the painfully-obvious presence of his glasses.

“Whoa!!” Mikey’s voices breaks through the peace and quiet, erupting from a door was he distinctly remembers Leo closing moments earlier, and he promptly bounces in the room, eyes wide and grin broad. “Dude! Bro, you look awesome! Leo, Raph!!” _Oh why, oh why_ does his brother have to make public announcements like this? “You gotta check Donnie out!! We’re gonna have to keep an eye on him tonight, before all the girls snatch him up!”

Alright, on the one hand, compliment. On the other hand, embarrassment city. Leo pokes his head in the doorway, nodding with a smile while reaching for Mikey’s shoulder and taking hold. “Come on, then.” The eldest says, dragging Mikey out while motioning for Donatello to follow. “We don’t want to be late.”

“Then let’s get this party started.” Raphael declares, cracking his knuckles with a massive grin. “We’ve got things to do, places to see, and fun to make.”

Donatello would personally like to know where his brother got the leather to make this ensemble, but decides to not ask. He trusts Raphael wouldn’t resort to unnecessary thievery, and the biker look suites him, especially with the red cloth wrapped tight around his head like a badge of honor. The only thing he’s missing is the motorcycle to go with it, but that very well could be changing in a matter of weeks.

Mikey slips free of Leo’s hold and proceeds to bounce his way out the door and into the tunnels, proudly singing some variation of “You are my Sunshine” at the top of his lungs. Leo shakes his head, bids Sensei a short farewell, with a promise to be safe and back before dawn, and follows, with the other two in his wake. Donatello adjusts the cape, ensuring it will stay fastened beneath his lapels, and Raphael retrieves a pair of black leather gloves from his belt, straps them secure around his wrists, and nods down the way towards the small, orange-and-green dot that is their younger brother.

“Ever think Angel-Face needs glasses?” he rumbles, with a smirk, “Or does she just have low standards?”

***

“I don’t care if it’s _not authentic_.” Celine says, hands planted firmly on her hips, eyebrows cocked, and a _stop arguing with me, right now_ tone. “You’re not walking out of this apartment dressed like that.”

“What am I supposed to wear, a turtleneck?” Angel huffs, blowing her bangs up in the process, “The outfits have to match, Celine!”

“It’s the end of October, young lady. You’re not waltzing around in a bikini and nothing else.”

“I’ll wear shoes!”

“ _No_.”

“Save your breath, Angel.” April calls from the bathroom; nothing like quality entertainment to go along with dressing for the evening. “She’s not budging on this one.”

She vaguely hears something that resembles a whine, and then a resumed conversation—not quite a debate, not as volatile as an argument—between the two women about what would constitute appropriate attire and still hold true to the original theme for Angel and Mikey’s matching costumes. Personally, considering how he dresses on a regular basis, April doesn’t see the originality in “Surfer Turtle”, but at least it will fit his personality.

She takes a moment to carefully examine her reflection, eyes taking note of every last detail, seeking flaws or areas in need of extra attention. Her eyes look good—alright, she’ll feed her ego; her eyes look awesome—and the two hours of negotiating with her curls has finally paid off. After a moment’s consideration, she decides to go with a pink shade for her lips; innocent, subtle, but with just enough sheen to catch attention. _Perfect._

Slipping into her costume is like slipping on a silk glove. The time it took to tailor this thing was well-worth it: it fits perfectly, molds to her shape, highlights the best parts of her in a way that’s half innocent and half flirtatious invitation. Nothing scandalous, nothing obscene…but it’s her. It’s so very, very _her_.

She wonders what her match will be tonight. It’s easy enough to imagine Donnie in something outlandish, something paying tribute to his favorite television series or one of the many great minds of science he holds in high regard. But she also wonders if, like herself, tonight was the night to take risks, to gamble the stakes, to try something completely different. Anything will be fine—he really can’t make himself look ridiculous in her eyes—but secretly, she hopes he took a risk. She really, really does.

Stepping out into the living room space, she finds Celine making some minor adjustments to her costume—a beautiful, handmade Geisha-inspired ensemble in blues and greens—and casting a look outside to the streets. “They’re already gathering.” She says. “The evening is beginning early tonight.”

“They start earlier every year.” April nods, joining her at the window. Her eyes scan, anticipation a held breath in her lungs, but there’s no sign of four distinct figures amongst the gathered. Yet. _They’ll be here._

“And last even later into the evening.” Celine finishes, running a pleased eye over the brunette. “Goodness. Aren’t you the belle of the ball?”

“Thought I’d do something different.” She shrugs, though the shy smile on her lips betrays all attempts at indifference as she twirls slowly in place, savoring the way silk feels against her legs. “Change it up, for once.”

Celine makes a comment about lots of things changing this year, and Angel promptly adds a quip about how that better not be referring to her costume, again, as though she’s suffered greatly through a trying ordeal of making adjustments to her attire. _Such drama_ , Celine declares, smirking, but gives her final approval on the redhead’s new look: a sleeveless wrap dress sporting an array of colors, prominently orange and gold, and sandals that will probably be coming off in half an hour, without care for cold weather and asphalt in desperate need of deep cleaning. Her red hair has been tossed and worked into windblown curls, with a large flower pinned carefully above the left temple.

“If you all are done staring,” Angel says, though she’s smirking proudly at all the attention, “let’s get moving. The party isn’t going to have itself.”

***

The streets are already packed by the time they surface, which makes for an easy entrance and swift blend into the crowd. It’s incredible, to have no one give them a second look. They fit in amongst the wild caricatures and costumed citizens, welcomed with open arms, and no one suspects there might not be a human being beneath the costume. Several people even give compliments, on the uniqueness of “a costume on top of a costume”. Mikey is all for it, taking the praise with a broad grin and reciprocal comment on certain outfits. 

Ten minutes into this newfound excitement, a rather curvaceous brunette, dressed in a frilly dress, takes Mikey’s compliment and responds with what can only be described as blatant flirtation, and a rather awkward display to witness at that. Off to the side, Raphael cracks his knuckles in a pointed gesture, and Leo makes a quiet comment about “not causing a scene”.

Fortunately, help arrives shortly thereafter; as the brunette is walking her fingers up Mikey’s front, another hand reaches out and slaps it away. “Surfer boys and princesses don’t match too well, honey.” Angel says, one arm hooking around Mikey’s shoulder and hanging down his front, head tilted as she gives the other girl an icy stare. “You might get sand in your glass slippers. Try elsewhere.”

Donatello tucks away a small smirk, at the indignant huff this woman gives before stomping off, and the way Mikey catches Angel in his arms and declares her his hero. She looks appropriately amused, patting him on the head and promising protection from the other “man-eating harpies” lingering in the crowd tonight. Leo greets her and then Celine, the latter with a long kiss. Behind his brother’s back, Raphael makes a display of being physically ill. Donatello barely notices any of it.

April emerges only a moment later, parting the crowd with her mere presence as artfully and effortlessly as God parted the Red Sea. It’s the Cinderella tale, when the mysterious woman appears without warning, without explanation, and without any idea as to who she is. Eyes stare, jaws gaping, as she glides through the wide berth given her. Artfully-layered white skirts catch even the faintest light, highlighting her perfect form with laser-precision; the sleeves are a beautiful dichotomy, sheer fabric accented with white lace, from shoulder to cuff; the neckline offers innocent hints of her soft curves and bares the elegant shapes of her collarbone and throat; there’s a shimmer of silver-white across her eyelids, and silver and white entwined with her dark curls, falling loose to frame her features. She looks celestial, a ray of moonlight descended to earth and brought to human form.

At some point, when she gets within five feet of him, he remembers the necessity of proper breathing. Her eyes sparkle with a smile as she takes in his costume, and then, with graceful stride, she lowers herself to a curtsy. “ _Monsieur Fantom_ ,” she murmurs, smile growing. Her lips are pink, radiant, and he wonders if and when he might have the bravado to kiss them. 

It seems a dream, but then again…he’s not shy and socially-inept Donatello. Not tonight. He wears the guise of a musical genius, a master of melodies and shadows alike, an artisan, a great composer, confident when he dons the mask, conceals his identity, and doesn’t falter before anyone. He stands before the woman who quite effectively stole his heart and demonstrates only a gentleman’s grace and confidence. He can do this. He can do this without fainting and requiring a respirator.

“Mademoiselle.” He returns, bowing and thanking the powers-that-be when his mask stays perfectly still instead of sliding forward under the pressing weight of his glasses. 

April’s gaze wanders to the square, where couples have gathered and are dancing, in various costumes that don’t necessarily match, but no one seems to care one way or another. One song ends, and another begins; this one is classical in its composition, a far cry from the popular music that Mikey likes to blast at unholy levels out of his room—one of the many reasons Donatello has taken to wearing earbuds while working—and he feels a shiver run through his limbs. Dancing…the chance to dance with her, when she’s dressed like an angel and has selected him, from every other human male specimen in the crowd…he’s beginning to wonder if _he_ isn’t the Cinderella in this story.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, willing his voice not to crack. With a gesture he’s been practicing for the last thirty-one hours—because, really, who needs sleep?—he offers his hand and barely forces back the delighted shiver when she sets her palm to his. The lace is soft, velvety, against his skin, and her hand is warm, dwarfed within his grasp. He feels dizzy, half-drunk with a variety of incredibly pleasant sensations, and when she steps even closer with that smile and those eyes, it really is by an act of God that he doesn’t faint.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

*** 

_Hooked like fish_ , Raphael smirks to himself, leaning back against the wall, toothpick rolling from one side to the other, as he observes one brother chatting up the feisty little redhead, another brother seated with his lady close by, whispering sweet nothings to one another, and the third leading April in a dance. It’s enough to make one wonder if the holidays have confused themselves. This is Halloween, for crying out loud, not Valentine’s Day.

He, for one, intends to have a good time tonight, without a female attachment on his arm. He’s dressed for it—minus his bike, but while he’d love to blame Mikey’s idiocy for that, the fact remains it just isn’t ready yet—and has his eye on a group of badly-dressed misfits who look just itching for a fight, for some trouble, to make a mess of the party. A couple of them are flying the purple, and three have the worst ink-jobs he’s ever seen in his life splotched across their faces—or, in one guy’s case, his shaved head—which gives him a pretty good idea which particular band of numskulls they belong to. _Good_ , he quietly grins. He still owes these punks for slicing up April. Not that he begrudges Donnie the chance to take out the guilty party, but that doesn’t mean _he_ can’t have his own fun to settle the score.

“Nice look.” A woman’s voice slinks out from the shadows, smooth as silk, calm as a cat. “Are you the whipper or the whipped?”

There’re a couple things he could do, right about now. One of them would cause a scene, which would ruin the party, and Leo would bend his ear about it for a month. He decides to pick the second option. “I don’t do whips.” He replies, cracking the toothpick in half, just to make the point, then spitting it out as he finds the figure in black, perched delicately on a window ledge about fifteen feet up. “Too prissy.”

He can see her smirk, red lips curling in thin amusement, but he hears it more prominently in her voice when she answers, “Ah. I forgot. Chains are more your style.”

“Leaves an impression.” _Like you_ , he adds silently. “No pain, no gain.”

“Unless you are the one in chains.”

“Been there.” He shrugs, settling back against the wall, eyes falling away and returning to his prey, as though he’s bored with the conversation. As though there are no memories attached to this little banter that might make it anything less than an exchange of dry wit. As though he could care less about her. The last part is true. The rest is mostly true.

She takes his dismissal in stride, which doesn’t surprise him. This one’s not some emotional dame or pouty princess. There’s no further conversation, for about five minutes; he watches the band of purple rejects circle the outskirts of the party-goers, probably trying to pick a good target or spot the best time to make trouble. Then, he sees them start chatting and pointing at April. He shifts forward, haunches rising, blood warming in his veins. _Hell no._ No one’s taking a second swing at her, _or_ his brothers, for that matter. He’ll wipe the asphalt with these little punks first.

“New recruits.” Her voice trickles into his ear, now closer, at his left. From the peripheral, he can see her silhouette in greater detail: black denim on bottom, black leather on top, black hair tied back with loose strands falling across her face. Briefly, he wonders when she lost the pink fringe. “You can always spot them a mile away. They’re the worst dressed, the worst disguised, and the ones openly itching for a fight.”

“Care to tell me names?” he rumbles, gaze narrowing in on one of the six, a burly figure, tattooed from head to foot, who has his eye on April and his hand stroking a gun. “I like to make formal introductions before I start kicking skulls in.”

“No clue.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Not my crowd anymore.”

“The hell it’s not.”

“It isn’t.” she snaps, green eyes sharp on his face. And there’s a minute or two where he actually thinks he might believe her. _Might_ , being the operative word.

“Why are you here?” he finally asks, cocking his brow ridge at her.

It’s her turn to shrug. “I could say I’m bored.” She murmurs. “I could also say I’m here for the festivities. Or I could say I’ve been following the Dragons for the past few months, finally saw these guys break from the group, and I’m here to get my hits in for trying to kill me and Angel. Not sure why it matters,” she adds, flicking a troublesome strand from her eyes, “you wouldn’t believe anything that comes out of my mouth.”

“Give me a reason to.”

“Don’t feel like it.” She replies, and he supposes there’s something to admire in her blunt, _Hell with the world_ attitude. “And I don’t feel like continuing this pointless conversation.”

“Then by all means, Princess,” he smirks, with a mocking bow, “what _would_ suit your pretty little fancy?”

***

There is, probably, more than likely, some scientific explanation for this. There has to be. Everything in this world, in this life, has a perfectly logical, rational, reasonable explanation attached. All emotions are the result of chemical reactions which trigger various parts of the brain, depending on the specific emotion, and the accompanying release of adrenaline and serotonin and so on. It’s all perfectly explained by science. Without exception.

He wonders how long he can keep telling himself that.

April’s hand is still nestled safe, protected, within his grasp, and while he can’t see her smile anymore, with her head resting against his chest, exactly one inch below the clavicle, he can feel it. Even through layers of fabric, his nerves are excited and hyper-sensitive and can feel the soft upward curve to her lips, just as they feel the warmth of her skin and the soft press of her hair. She’s wearing perfume. Something floral. Not too heavy, not too subtle. Just the right amount to compliment her natural scent and make his head spin with the sweet aroma.

The thought that he would ever be the recipient of jealous stares was, prior to this evening, a laughable concept. Literally. He would have possibly given himself a stroke from laughing so hard, just at the suggested notion human men would be staring at him with openly-expressed jealousy. Hilariously absurd, to say the least. But here he is, and there they are. He can feel each and every stare on his back, just like the time he (accidentally) blew up the power box and was showered with electrical sparks. No damage, but the distinct sensation of tiny white-hot embers up and down his shell and the backs of both arms. It’s…incredible. They’re jealous. Of him.

Then again, if someone else had a celestial goddess in his arms, and she’d refused to dance with anyone but that very fortunate fellow, all night, song after song…he’d probably be seething with jealousy too.

“Are they still staring at us?” April asks, voice soft and sweetly content.

“I am relatively certain their intense focus is directed primarily at _you_.” He says; the music, thankfully, keeps the details of their conversation private to any listening ears. “ _I_ am likely the recipient of their stares by default, because I happen to be in close proximity to you.”

“You sure?” she lifts her head, a coy smile on her lips; the kind she wears when she’s about to make some kind of witty observation. “I think there’re probably a few girls out there wanting to sink their claws into me for stealing you all for myself.”

He doesn’t laugh— _thank God_ , because there would be no surer way to ruin this moment than the horrendously obnoxious disruption that is his laughter—but tucks away a tiny and highly awkward chuckle, deep in his throat. “I see.” he finally says, because, really, what is he supposed to say to that? This is the root of his accumulating anxieties over the past few months—and, if he were to be perfectly honest, even longer than that—once more tossed in his face. The idea that anyone would be jealous, of _her_ , because she’s with _him_ …does not compute. Access denied. Blue screen of death.

His tone obviously catches her attention, because her blue eyes are suddenly looking right at him, deep, deep, soul-searching deep, and he’s acutely aware of one hand ascending to his mask. Slender fingers fit to its shape, resting in place, but with a distinct grip that has his neurons firing in a frantic frenzy, trying to calculate the proper response and failing, which leaves him standing perfectly still, not breathing as much as holding air in his lungs like he’ll never have another chance to draw breathe, and watching in mute terror.

“Don,” April murmurs, oblivious to the fact that (or maybe, not caring) they’re the only couple not dancing anymore, “you do know this is real, right?”

_…What?_ Why can’t his brain just work properly, for once, instead of stalling out every time she’s near him? “I…” the weak attempt at a response flounders in his mouth for a moment before dropping like a lead weight on his tongue. Alright, think rationally, work through what she said…but all he’s coming up with is “This is real”. Which doesn’t help. Lots of things are real. He’s real. She’s real. The universal system in which they presently reside is real. The world spinning in a steady axis rotation around and beneath them is real. What is _this_?

And isn’t that the million-dollar question he’s been asking himself for the last five months, forty-two days, and too many seconds to count? The irony is not amusing.

“This.” She repeats, her other hand resting flat to his chest and gently splaying over the erratically-thumping organ that is his heart. “ _Us_. It’s real.”

His logical scientist’s brain is having a field day, demanding to have more answers, more rational explanation in order to make sense of it all. The rest of him…doesn’t care. About sensible, well-reasoned, scientifically-based answers, that is. She just said the magic word: _us_. Her, him, them. Not two separate entities, not individual specimens, but two joined into one. _Us._

Her fingers tease the corner of his mask up, just a bit more, and she starts to draw a little closer, erase the already limited space between them to nothing, eyelids lowering, head tilting…it’s the prelude before a kiss. A lover’s kiss. He sees it, knows it, understands it, and this time, beats her to it. 

***

There are few things as satisfying as the sound of your fist connecting with someone’s jaw, the sight of a body flying through the air, skidding across the pavement, and slamming into the dumpster with a resounding _clang!_ He grins, flexes his muscles, and meets the next guy with equal vigor. _Finally._ This is his idea of a good time, of a night well-spent, Halloween or not: beating the stuffing out of poorly-inked horror-film rejects in a back alley, pummeling one after another into the ground until the last man standing is a twitching mass of bruises and limbs on the ground.

Having a chick in the mix, decked out in black leather, holding her own, knocking guys up left and right like she was born for it, and looking freakin’ hot while doing it? It’s a nice perk. And yes, he’ll admit it, she really does look hot. He’ll destroy anyone who suggests he was ever thinking it, but she does. He’ll also destroy anyone who suggests he’s forgetting who she is, what she helped do to his brothers, or any other important details. He hasn’t forgotten anything. He’s just choosing to not think about it. For now.

Whistling quietly, he pops open the dumpster, tosses the trash, and then pauses to take another look at his dance partner. Two of the Purple Rejects are lying at her feet, unconscious, and the third is wildly swinging at her with fists and whatever else happens to be nearby. Her movements are good. She’s got sharp reflexes, quick recovery…she’s been trained, just like them. She isn’t just a gun-toting lackey in hot pants. This one knows her stuff.

He whistles to catch her attention. “Hey, Miss Sunshine,” he nods at the hatch, “try your luck?”

She smirks, spine curving backwards as a metal pipe swings towards her head, and then seamlessly returning upright. “Do I get a nice big kiss if I make it?”

“Might even get two, if you impress the judge.”

Her eyes flash, like green strobe lights, and then she tosses herself backwards in a sharp spin; her foot connects just under the guy’s jaw with a resounding _crack_ and yelp of pain; he goes flying like a discarded sock, bangs off the rim, and then flops like a dead fish in the dumpster with the rest. Raphael drops the lid, satisfied when he hears it bang off someone’s head. “Not bad.” He shrugs. “A little rusty, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Rusty?” Karai responds, cocking her hips and titling her head, all black leather and sassy attitude, “I’ll give you _rusty_.”

“That a challenge, Sunshine?” he takes a pointed step forward, brow ridge cocked. The blood in his veins warms, adrenaline stirring up a storm. “Better not throw out fighting words if you’re not prepared to deliver.”

Dark eyebrows lift high, and then one hand pulls the zipper of her jacket until the lapels fall loose. She slips free and carefully drapes it over some trashed boxes and what looks like busted-up chairs. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.” She explains, shrugging one shoulder and cracking her neck in the same movement. Without the jacket, a sleeveless top shows off slim arms toned with lean muscles. There are a few red marks visible; by tomorrow, there will be more.

He plans to make sure of it.


End file.
